Nobody's ever read this.
I wrote it on one of those horrible insomniac nights where I have to write down everything I'm thinking before I can sleep.


3rd grade– My dad officially retired in November on disability caused by Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome from the Vietnam War. I knew what Prozac was before I was allowed to watch PG movies. 9/11 had just happened which wasn’t exactly great news for an unstable veteran.

As if dealing with the gossip in church and hardly ever seeing my dad go outside of the house for weeks wasn’t enough, there was also that night that scares me to death to this day. My dad had been drinking and his doctors were still fluctuating his medication - not a good mix.

It was a Sunday. This is important because I asked my mom later why she and my dad would always fight on Sunday nights and she said, “I guess it’s because I look back on the week and see what my life is about.” My dad threatened my mom that night. She called the police. We sat in the car on the edge of the street.

It was raining. This is important because I remember I couldn’t tell the difference from my tears to the big raindrops on the windshield. I remember seeing red and blue lights going down my driveway into the woods. I rolled down my window to listen. We were two-hundred yards away. I knew the only thing I possibly could have heard would have been a gunshot.
A nine-year-old girl shouldn’t have to listen for that. The cop brought back my book bag after about 30 minutes. My mom still went in to get me some clothes for the next day. I sat on the front deck. I could hear my dad say, “You know that’s a felony? They could have had me arrested!” My mom simply replied, “Did you know it was a felony?”

I want you to understand, my dad’s not a bad person. He’s never hurt me physically and never laid a hand on my mom. But he is a stupid man when he drinks.

We stayed at a friend’s house that night. I didn’t sleep at all. I just watched the lights from the stereo demo on the ceiling. They were red and blue, too.


4th grade - It was in the middle of the school year, sometime after my tenth birthday. I was reading a Nancy Drew when my mom’s car pulled up in the driveway. She and my dad went into their bedroom. I heard a lot of crying. I knew she had just come from the doctor. Something was wrong.

I walked down the hallway quietly, hoping to hear a clue of what was going on. I listened for a moment and then knocked. I didn’t get an answer. My dad just opened the door with a blank expression, went out, and left it open so I could go in. I did.

My mom was sitting on her bed playing with the bottom hem of her shirt. She looked just like a child, like me, at the time.

I sat next to her and already a tear slipped from my eye at just the sight of her crying. “What?” was all I managed to say.

“You know I went to the doctor today, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, it was just a check up but they found something." She paused. "I have breast cancer.” She had yet to look at me.
“How bad is it?” I had little knowledge on breast cancer. All I knew was that the woman down the street had died from it. That's all I could associate the words with - death.
“They caught it early. The doctor said it was Stage 3. This means- “
I cut her off. “Thank God they found it early.”
She looked at me for the first time and hugged me. We cried, a lot. We didn’t say anything else for at least an hour.

The next day at school, I didn’t tell anyone. In fact, for the next two weeks, I acted as if nothing had happened. After all, this wasn’t the first time I had to pretend to be okay. My mom didn't notify the school. I had asked her not to. I guess I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She understood.

Then one day, I went to the bathroom. I was washing my hands when I looked in the mirror and saw lipstick on my cheek from where she had kissed me that morning. I reached for a paper towel to wipe it off when I burst into tears. The thought of wiping it off was just horrible to me. That smudge of lipstick on my cheek might just be the last thing I have off her. It might be my last proof that she loved me.

That moment is when it hit me that my mom might not be there when I got back from school. She might not be there when I grow up, when I graduate, when I marry. She might not live past tomorrow.

Once the tears started, I couldn’t stop them. It was the kind of crying that works every muscle in your body. I was exhausted by the time my best friend came in the bathroom.
“Katheryn, you better go back to class. Mrs. Hally’s mad.”
“I can’t. My mom has cancer.” I said it in such a plain way. It didn't come out with any significance. It was just a fact.

I heard the door shut and less than a minute later the teacher was in the bathroom. She dried my eyes, did the whole don’t-worry-everything-will-be-okay cherade and took me back to class. Everyone’s eyes were on me.

When I sat down, at first they only whispered “What’s wrong?”
Then it got louder.
My teacher said, “Katheryn can explain for herself if she wants.”

That’s right. That’s how you treat a child going through a traumatic experience in the middle of the school day – put her in the spotlight to explain it all.

I remember smiling. I smiled a ridiculous, fake smile and said, “My mom has cancer,” as if I were just saying, “Don’t worry about me. No big deal. No harm done.” I don't know why it's so hard to just let go and be weak in front of others.

Needless to say, fourth graders don’t have the best nurturing skills. Neither did my teacher. Neither did my father. Church was just a place to sing. The old ladies faked sympathy for me when I would answer their questions about where my mom was Sunday mornings. They always asked as if maybe, for once, she had some other excuse than exhaustion from radiation or horrible pain due to the removal of lymph-nodes. But, no, they didn't really care. There real concern was if I were to wear black shoes with a summer dress because my dad dressed me. That's when they really worried.

Basically, I had no one to talk to throughout my fourth grade year.

I gradually got used to answering the same questions over and over. “How’s your mom?”, “Has chemo started?”, “Is she still in the hospital?”, and my favorite insincere comment “Do you need anything? I can whip up a meal in no-times notice.”

I didn’t need a catering service, I needed a normal life.


5th grade – By this time, I was used to chaos. My family’s abnormalities were normal. My mom's surgeries were, for the most part, over. My parents were encouraging me to live a normal kid's life. I started to care more about my appearance. I even attempted straightening my hair.

Most people could judge how well my mom was doing by how well my hair looked.

Constant updates weren’t required as much now. Her name was moved down on the church directory's prayer list as it became old news.

She stayed in bed a lot; my dad stayed on the couch. He was on 11 prescription drugs at one point.
I read my Bible a lot more.
I listened to Oldies.
I wore purple turtleneck sweaters.
I was always the first to answer a question in class.
I had everything under control.
I was a mature, independent 11 year old.


6th grade – Apparently, in sixth grade, I had a minor identity crisis. I wanted to be different. I wasn’t a cheerleader, I was a rebel. I bought black mini skirts from Limited Too and I had these giant black leather gaudy shoes. I wore them with camouflage pants and baggy hoodies from Pac Sun and Aeropostale.

Whenever a guy I liked would walk past, I would immediately put on the I’m-so-cool-I-have-to-act-dead-so-you-won’t-know-I-care look.
Yeah, I wouldn’t suggest it.
I read a lot of fantasy books.
I listened to Avril Lavigne.
I sat in the back of class.
I was unique.

7th grade – In middle school, maturity is forced on you. My mom’s cancer debacle was coming to an end. My dad was much more balanced. I was happier.

Puberty set in. I hated it, except for the boobs. I always promised myself I would get liposuction or something when I was little. My mind changed quickly when I realized the reactions I got.

Along with my body, hormones went crazy. Sometime after Christmas I began obsessing over boys. I tried to make it seem like I had better hobbies than boy obsessing.

I was a pathological liar.
I tried to be bad just because being good was boring.
I would do homework in the morning right before 1st period instead of doing my devotional like I had done in 5th grade. I still managed to get straight A’s.
My interest in books died. I spent most of my time IMing or surfing the internet. That’s how I found Blogger. Blogging helped me through a lot
At the end of the year, I had changed a lot. I had forgotten about my fashion resolution.
My boy obsession only led to disappointment after disappointment. I had yet to have a first kiss.
I played soccer. I made new best friends. I tried to be a vegetarian (emphasis on the “tried”). I listened to everything from Green Day to Queen. It wasn’t until summer that I had another identity crisis.

8th grade– On the first day of 8th grade, I was a new person. I had tried desperately to keep a tan. That didn’t work. I had about 500 different love interests. None of them worked. Again, I switched best friends. Moving and switching schools opened up as an option. Makeup came easier. I read way too many Palahniuck novels and teen romances. Both were depressing.

In late November/ early December, I almost killed myself.

I was barely 14. And I was sad. I had access to way too many prescriptions in my parent’s medicine cabinet. Falling asleep seemed peaceful. It wouldn’t be messy or nightmarish. I was going to do it that night, after my parents went to sleep. I wrote a letter on my laptop. It was kind of short and to the point. It wasn't spiteful or angry. It was nice. I left the laptop password so they could read all of my stories or even play Sims 2 for all I cared. It’s not that I didn’t feel bad about it; it just felt right and normal. Kind of like I was closing up shop for the afternoon. One less hormonal teen clogging up the world wouldn’t be so bad.

If my dad hadn’t knocked on the door, I don’t know if I would be here right now.

I told him everything. I told him how there was no way out.

Somehow, he understood. He told me to wait till I was 16 for a driver’s license. He said that gave him freedom, a purpose, when he was my age.

He also shared that maybe the reason I was so depressed is because I had/have a better understanding of people. Maybe my developmental skills couldn’t handle my thoughts.

In the midst of all this, I also told him how I was unsure if God existed. This hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt him. He didn’t deserve it. I could see where having your only daughter kill herself at 14 when she didn’t even believe in God would be more than upsetting.

I asked him not to tell my mom. I didn't want her to over-react and get too involved with me. He did tell her. I tried to act like I was mad at him, but I wasn't. I wanted attention. I needed attention.

I got help. I went to see a social worker, at first every week. Then every 2 weeks. I haven't seen her since we moved.

Thanks to a lot of help from my friends and religion, I've realized how selfish it was of me to even consider doing that. The thing about suicide is it’s contagious. If one person does it, it seems to inspire unhappiness. I had even helped a boy in my class avoid suicide just a month before. What would I be saying to him if the person who helped him was such a hypocrite that she killed herself?

I think maybe he would have hurt himself.
I also think the same thing about my parents.
And maybe even someone who reads my blog.
Killing myself would have been homicide as well.

Not to mention, it is the biggest insult to God. If your parents used all of their money to buy you the nicest gift in the world and you rejected it, threw it away, it would be devastating to them, right?

That's only a small comparison with God's gift of life.
No matter how bad things get, they could always be worse. If I can find a way to make it through depression, anyone can.

I've been through a lot so far in my life and the only thing that gives me any real comfort is knowing that God is in control. Please, hear me out.
My life may seem like a chain of bad luck or very sad story, but, the way I see it, it's made me who I am. Without the sadness and the... pain... I don't think I would be as thoughtful or understanding as I hope I am today. I'm tough. I can handle things better now. People can turn to me for help because of that.
I would much rather suffer for wisdom than to be naive.

1 Corinthians 10:13 says "And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it."
He won't give us anything we can't handle.
This completely contradicts suicide.

I've found the Bible is so much easier to live by.